


Not Just for Kissing

by jeweniper



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: KyouHaba Week, M/M, hahahaha, idk the title sounds ambitious but it's really not that cool, lips, mention of blood (like literally a mention), super self-indulgent, whoops I'm a month early wow way to go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:42:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeweniper/pseuds/jeweniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shigeru considered himself an appreciator of lips—a connoisseur, if he could be so bold. And Kyoutani treated his own so poorly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just for Kissing

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in advance for Kyouhaba week Day 2-Touch (since I'll be at work the whole time, wahh)! It was also written with the prompt "Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lip" in mind. I had a lot of fun with this one, and got wildly self-indulgent by writing it with all the stylisitic things I like most. Yeah. I don't know how to defend myself, but I hope you like it~ hahahaa.

                Shigeru sat crumpled up by the window, hand freezing from its unfortunate position beneath an AC vent in the unevenly-cooled travel coach. He adjusted slightly, glaring at Kyoutani’s form next to him, all sprawling sleep after a hard game won. When they’d departed, he had decided that sitting next to the unruly ace would help their cooperation, and had fiercely insisted on having the window seat for the return ride. After all, it was only fair. Kyoutani had yowled about how he always leaned toward the window and _couldn’t_ be in the aisle seat, but Shigeru stood firm, thinking that behavior probably resulted from selfishness and lack of restraint (classic Kyoutani, as far as Shigeru was concerned).

                It had been a dumb thought.

                _Well, nothing to do about it now_ , he sighed, eyes sliding down to the sleeping boy’s lips as the passing streetlights danced over its jagged edges in a samba of periodic illumination. He frowned. Shigeru considered himself an appreciator of lips—a connoisseur, if he could be so bold. Their plumpness, symmetry, and expressive capacity for everything from slight anxiety to barely-restrained rage had filled him with fascination for as long as he could remember. He’d seen some good pairs in his short lifetime. Oikawa, for one, and that black-haired manager of the Karasuno team were two he was blessed with witnessing from his time in high school alone. But Kyoutani…he had nice lips. Or at least, the _potential_ for nice lips. They were thin, subtly supporting the natural segmentation of his lower face with a soft sepia that complimented his olive skin. Further, the arches of the upper lip curved as perfectly as two ball arcs sent lazily across the net. And he had to admit, the leftward pull of his Unshakable Scowl™ created an asymmetry that disgruntled your subconscious enough to add weight to his rough demeanor. Shigeru treated them to another look and felt a deep ache. Oh yes, potential for nice lips, but he treated them so _poorly_.

                And it wouldn’t be that much of a problem if they weren’t in his face nearly All the Time (because, as embarrassing as it was to admit, Kyoutani’s lips were but one thing of many to ruffle Shigeru’s feathers, and they ended up screaming into each other’s faces rather often). He frowned constantly, which was sure to bring early wrinkles like a cloud of gnats over ripe, decadent fruit. Whenever he and the captain got particularly explosive, Kyoutani’s teeth would dig into the delicate brushstroke of his bottom lip, frequently mutilating it with angry indentations and bloodied smears as red as the fury in the boy’s eyes, a last ditch effort to keep from slugging his powerful spiking arm into Shigeru’s (delicate, modestly-lipped) face. Those absolutely abused lips, tossed into his face, crying out for help at _every turn_! He gritted his teeth and sunk more firmly into the 80’s “geometric chic” pattern of the scratchy cotton seat. And the worse part of it? Those wounds would heal if Kyoutani could act less like a mongrel and more like a human for _one minute_ and put on some _fucking chapstick—_ Shigeru launched himself into his bag, tearing through the various tubes and metal tins for a particular little balm of Burt’s Bees Ultra Conditioning beeswax lip balm (that could bring a Saharan mirage into reality if it sat on someone’s face, he was sure).

                It was a bad idea. Even discovering the goldenrod container of imminent hydration with a glint of satisfied triumph in his eye, Shigeru _knew_ this was a Grade A bad idea. But to finally provide a bit of relief to those poor, totally mistreated lips (and mess with Sleeping Beauty a little, who are we fooling) was a noble cause that was indeed very worth the risk. Moving much less frantically now that he had the balm, Shigeru quieted his breath and slid into the ace’s personal space, nervously lingering on the darker shadow of his closed lids before moving down to the main event. When he got close enough to hear the slight variations in Kyoutani’s breath above the Unshakeable Scowl™ with his (probably violent) dreams, he paused. They passed one streetlight in that time, now far beyond the industrial regularity of highway lighting. Kyoutani shifted slightly more towards Shigeru’s seat. A car thumping Perfume sped by. _There’s no way I’m soiling my balm with those things_ , he decided after a moment of deliberation in the darkness of the noiseless coach. Keeping his breaths shallow, both to be quiet and in sudden apprehension, he slowly unscrewed the lid and dipped his finger into the balm. The substance clung to his fingertip, insulating it and causing the rest of the digit to feel the cool air more starkly.

                He began his approach, unconsciously holding his breath. At the last moment, someone coughed in the back—momentarily startling him—but Kyoutani didn’t stir and Shigeru made contact without a hitch. He exhaled silently, slowly dragging his finger along the bottom, inching closer to adjust his eyes more fully to the moon’s lavender glow. The sensation was not as he expected. The chaps were undeniably rough, but the indents that punctuated many of their arguments had softened as naturally as the valleys of dimples, peppering along the line of sensitive skin in a way that was even more pronounced than when viewed from a close snarl. And overall, they were smooth, more a strip of worn leather than a brush of paint. Mesmerized, he calmed himself for a moment and opened into the angled first arc of the upper lip when a needle-thin hiss ghosted out of the sleeping boy.

                “What the fuck are you doing, Yahaba,” Kyoutani murmured, breath tickling the base of Shigeru’s offending finger. He froze, locking his gaze onto the dangerously bright eyes bearing down on him from above his crouched position mid-glide. Finger still delicately nestled in the fold of Kyoutani’s upper lip, Shigeru could only vaguely be thankful that the darkened surroundings covered the violently burning shame splotched up over his cheeks and ears. What the fuck _was_ he doing?

                “Um. I, uh,” he faltered, suddenly aware of the cotton in his throat and dryness of his own (sadly mediocre) lips. Years of carefully-crafted speech patterns and easy avoidance left him. He had been tracing his (enemy? patient? Begrudging acquaintance?) teammate’s lips with lovingly slow awe in the dark of night while he was asleep. Creepy, without a doubt. Bizarre, to say the least. In short, if Kyoutani punched him right here there really would be nothing Yahaba could say about it.

                But perhaps because of the utter irrationality of the situation, Kyoutani didn’t sound mad. He didn’t really sound like anything. So Yahaba offered what his spinning mind fed him, and answered, “your lips were chapped. And the wounds don’t heal. So I was giving them lip balm.” _Yeah, I’m going to get punched_ , he swallowed after the lame admission. He straightened up for the blow and began to remove his finger, feeling the blotchy shame flare up with the movement. Kyoutani’s hand darted out and grabbed Shigeru’s wrist, halting the retreat. The hold was gentle.

                “I don’t think you’re done,” he whispered simply, still holding his captain’s gaze. He released the wrist and brought his arm slowly back to its original position in his lap.

                Yahaba’s blush deepened, rash-like marks creeping down the back of his neck. “Um. Right,” he breathed back, entering the second arc without looking away. The AC was long forgotten, heat pulsating in his ears and his chest and everywhere but the cool intensity of their locked stares. _Damn, his lips really are smooth_ , he thought despite the embarrassment. His head swam. And just like that, after a few moments or too many hours (he couldn’t say which), his finger met with the opposite corner of Kyoutani’s lips. This time, when he slowly pulled the finger away, he was met with no complaint. “I’m done.” He stated, attempting to end the weird situation they seemed to be trapped in.

                “I noticed.” He continued to stare. It honestly was becoming more than Shigeru could take.

                “You’re supposed to roll them,” he mumbled, spitting out anything to change things back to normal, “your lips.” He half hoped Kyoutani would scoff. He half really wanted to see him roll those lips, even in the inadequate light.

                Kyoutani rolled them, ran a probing tongue over them slowly, and settled into what even in his compromised state Shigeru knew as an Unshakable Scowl™. “Not bad.” The moon glinted off his teeth in what was actually not a scowl, but a slight smirk.

                He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, and quickly shut off his brain to avoid what the newest explosion of red embarrassment whispered into his thoughts. “I’m glad. Good night, Kyoutani,” he wheezed instead, quickly turning towards the window and curling into his bag. He moved as close to the vent as possible.

                “‘Night.”


End file.
